


of tongues, the charms of arms (i shake at your touch)

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Double Penetration, Face-Fucking, Fisting, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, pippin is basically in love with the entire fellowship lbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: “I wish to not think,” Pippin declares to the sky and the trees and the men on either side of him, “for a little while, at least.”Boromir shoots Aragorn a Look; Pippin warms all over.“What do you propose we do to help rid you of the nuisance known as thought?” Boromir says, leaning in and brushing his lips against Pippin’s ear.In Lothlorien, Aragorn and Boromir soothe Pippin's heartache, at least for a little while.
Relationships: Background Aragorn/Boromir, Background Merry/Pippin, Background Pippin/Everyone, Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Pippin Took/Aragorn | Estel
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25





	of tongues, the charms of arms (i shake at your touch)

**Author's Note:**

> it is a universal truth that for every one (1) fic with plot, i must post 2+ pwp's. special thanks to the horny lotr group chat for cheering me on and special special thanks to claquesous for kicking my ass to get this done as well as beta'ing!  
> title from an, ahem, extremely sensual poem by w. h. auden entitled "the platonic blow."
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own lotr, all rights belong to respective owners.

Lothlórien is quiet, and not an unnatural one like the stillness of Moria or the deadness of the open road they traveled. The quiet of the Lady’s realm is one of deliberate, cultivated peace where the birds sigh and sing rather than cry, where the waters flow calm and silent rather than with rage. And high in the shining treetops, even though Pippin fears the drop, the views are beautiful enough to stun him. Of all the places they have seen, he finds Lothlórien to be the greatest of all. 

When Aragorn wakes him, Pippin is pressed up against Merry’s back, who in turn holds Frodo on his right, Sam to Frodo’s left. They always make sure Frodo is in the middle, for they all sleep the best that way. Aragorn kneels by his side, a smile gentling over his lips. Pippin smiles back, incapable of holding back because Aragorn is an exceptionally handsome man, especially when he’s happy. Pippin supposes that being in an Elvish realm makes him feel more at home and thus quicker to jolly. 

“Good morning,” Pippin says, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up, “or should I say good afternoon? I’m not quite sure how long I’ve slept. It feels like it’s been ages.”

“It’s a good morning,” Aragorn replies. “Breakfast should be in order soon.” 

Merry yawns, gropes around for Pippin’s missing warmth. Pippin offers his hand instead. “Don’t wake Frodo,” Merry mumbles. “He didn’t get to sleep until very late, Strider.” Rolling over, Merry buries his face in Pippin’s side. “Will it be more nuts and berries, then?”

“Nay,” Aragorn says, “Lady Galadriel’s people have prepared a good spread for us all. I believe I even smelled a honey cake or two.” Aragorn’s eyes crinkle when he says this, a mischievous air about him. The sight makes Pippin giddy and warm. 

They follow Aragorn to a grand hall, wide and airy, where Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas already wait for them. Elegant blonde wood, intricately carved into whorls and curves. Windows made of stained glass casting rainbows on the ground. Even though Pippin grew up in the Great Smials, the beauty and luxury of the Elves is far different than Hobbit sensibilities. His mum preferred dark oaks and mahoganies, warm reds and greens in her decor. Everything was full and busy and cosy, while the Elves, he sees, like the sparse and soothing and open. It’s not _bad_ , but it does make something in him wish to find a small closet in which to hide. 

Seated at the table, Aragorn ushers them to eat. There are honey cakes, which both Merry and Pippin dig into with gusto. It’s warming and refreshing, and the taste reminds him so much of his mum’s that Pippin feels heat prickle his eyes. Boromir, sat to his right, rubs a hand over his back.

“Are you alright, little one?” Boromir asks, low so as not to interrupt the conversation of Merry and Aragorn discussing various types of Shire tobacco. 

Pippin nods, “It tastes like my mum’s.” 

Boromir makes a noise of understanding but says nothing. He continues rubbing circles on Pippin’s back. Pippin’s unsure how long they spend at the table, he’s only grateful for the time with his friends all safe and protected. Even though they all have soot-streaked faces and blood-stains on their clothes, there is a calm about them. Perhaps they’re all still mourning Gandalf, but Merry squeezes his hand, lays his head on Pippin’s shoulder. Aragorn again favours them with a smile, one that makes Pippin blush and look askance. 

After a while, Aragorn shows them to a private stretch of the river where they make their encampment. By then, Frodo and Sam have woken and take their breakfast. One of Lady Galadriel’s attendants provides them with clean clothes and soaps gently scented with lavender and honey, far different from the mixture of egg and rosewater his sisters favoured for their hair. Most of the Fellowship gratefully strip down and take advantage of the placid river, so peaceful it doesn’t even appear to move unless you stick your feet in and feel the current. 

Bumble bees buzz past them, dragonflies dart across the water, and Pippin for a second, imagines he’s back home. Fishing with Merry on the Brandywine or kissing him beneath the water or eating supper outside with his sisters. A terrible weight comes down on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. When Merry asks if he’s going to join, he waves him off saying he’ll wash up later. Merry’s brow knits with concern, but doesn’t reply. 

Pippin sits against one of the great tree roots they’re camped against, hugs his knees to his chest. He watches Merry, Frodo, and Sam as they wash themselves: Frodo and Sam stealing shy looks at one another, the way Sam washes Frodo’s hair with more care than his own, even kneading the base of Frodo’s neck. He watches as Gimli and Legolas banter through their own baths, arguing back and forth about wars long-fought with an ease flowering between. He watches as Boromir and Aragorn sit cross-legged together, talking with their heads bowed over a map. And all at once, Pippin feels like a tremendous burden. It’s a silent feeling—a single bubble filling him up with self-loathing dark and slimy. It’s the same he’s felt since he was a lad, too little to tag along with his elder cousins; it’s the sound of every sigh directed at him when his parents told someone to watch him. 

He’s here for Frodo, to _protect_ Frodo. And when his thoughts drift back towards the horror of the Mines, he can’t help but feel responsible for Gandalf’s death. As Merry busses his forehead after getting out, dripping wet, Pippin closes his eyes so Merry can’t see the wetness there. The others file suit, drying off and dressing in the loose, silver robes of the Galadhrim until it’s just Pippin on the muddy, grassy bank. A warm breeze tousles his hair, makes the cattails and flowers bob and weave.

A hand on his shoulder: Boromir, smiling kind. “Are you not going to wash up? Merry won’t let you in the tent until you do.” Boromir smoothes over his hair. “If you won’t do it willingly, I shall have to toss you in myself. I have a little brother, do not forget.” He ghosts along Pippin’s side; Pippin erupts into laughs, wriggling away.

“Please, no! I will, I will,” Pippin says, fumbling for his clothes. 

Boromir sits back on his heels, “I will as well then. Keep you company. I don’t think any of us should be alone with our thoughts for too long right now.” 

Right, Pippin thinks, Boromir’s a soldier. He must’ve seen comrades die before. The thought that Boromir’s felt this same pain many times makes Pippin ache. Stripping off the tatters and rags of his clothes, he dives into the water to clear his head. Swimming’s always good for that. When he resurfaces, he gazes as Boromir takes his time and folds each item of clothing before setting it aside. His mail clangs heavy on the ground. And though Pippin tries not to stare too openly, Boromir is just as handsome as Aragorn. Broad, so very, very broad chested with hair that brushes his collarbones, and well, Pippin’s still a tween. His blood runs hot. He ducks beneath the water again. 

Popping back up, Boromir catches his slippery shoulders, hauls him up, and tosses him. Pippin yelps, startled and flailing as he splashes down. He sputters, slipping to catch a footing while Boromir laughs, deep and rumbling. 

“You—” Pippin cries, “you great oaf! You take advantage of me with your unnatural height, and now I must kill you.” He spies Aragorn creeping up behind Boromir, finger to his lips with the same mischievous look as earlier. Pippin’s stomach flutters. 

Boromir raises his eyebrows, “And how do you intend to do that? As you said, I have the superior height.” Pippin draws closer to him, hands on his hips.

“Well I have something far, _far_ greater, my Lord, for I have the aid of a scoundrel on my side, and he fights _dirty_.”

With that, Aragorn sweeps Boromir’s feet out from under him, grabs his waist, and flips Boromir backwards into the water. Boromir tumbles under with a yelp. Pippin wades over to Aragorn, both heaving with laughter. 

“That was very good of you, Strider,” Pippin says into Aragorn’s side. 

“It’s a trick I can only do in the water, when he is not so much heavier than I. My brothers taught me that when I was a boy—” Aragorn cuts himself off with a shout as Boromir pulls _his_ legs out from beneath him, falling backwards into the water. 

“And now we are all even,” Boromir declares, pushing his sopping bangs from his eyes. “Now, come little one. Let me wash your hair.” 

They settle in the shallows, Pippin between Boromir’s legs, hunched over as Boromir washes the muck from his hair. The water is sun-warm, sparkling. On the other bank, Pippin spies a shy deer darting through the trees. Overhead, birds twitter and sing. 

And Boromir’s hands feel very good in his hair.

“I’m glad to make you smile. It hurts my heart to see you so sad as you were when the others were bathing,” Boromir says. Then, “Close your eyes.” With several handfuls of water, he rinses out the sweet soap. Nearby, Aragorn floats lazily on his back, idly playing with tadpoles and swatting at a curious butterfly. 

“I was only thinking,” Pippin says. 

“Thinking can be a dangerous thing after so great a loss,” Aragorn says, quiet.

“Aye,” Boromir says, “a mind mired in grief can spin itself into something far darker.” 

Pippin swallows, staring down at his hands. “Can I wash your hair now, Boromir?” 

“Of course.” 

Pippin stands, scrubbing away blood and sweat as Boromir did for him. “It was not grief I thought of,” he admits. Boromir’s locks slip easily through his small fingers. “It’s only that. I’m a bloody burden to you all, aren’t I?” He sniffs, swipes his eyes before burying his face in the crook of Boromir’s neck. “Always have been.” 

Aragorn moves to hold him tight in an instant. “ _No_ ,” he says, hoarse. “Gandalf’s death was no one’s fault save that of the Enemy. You are as brave and necessary as all of us.”

Boromir holds his hands, tight. So tight. “There is only one burden among us, and it is that which Frodo wears. Do you think that I would trade your songs and stories for not having to carry you sometimes? _Never_ , Pippin.” 

Pippin chokes on a small sob while the other two stroke his hair, his shoulders. Hold him close while he cries. Cries for everything that has happened to him, to all of them. And he cries for Frodo, who seems to have no tears left to give for himself. When he finally settles, Aragorn takes him and washes the rest of him, graciously letting Pippin wash his hair as well. After, they stretch out on a grassy knoll, speckled with sunlight to dry. 

“I wish to not think,” Pippin declares to the sky and the trees and the men on either side of him, “for a little while, at least.” He remembers laying in a hidden meadow near Brandy Hall with Merry, both made brave by the wind and summer heat, where they kissed for the first time. 

Boromir shoots Aragorn a Look; Pippin warms all over. 

“What do you propose we do to help rid you of the nuisance known as thought?” Boromir says, leaning in and brushing his lips against Pippin’s ear. His beard makes Pippin shiver. Pippin’s felt that beard brush his skin before: he’s touched the raw, red marks it leaves behind on his thighs. He’s also felt Aragorn’s beard, on his lips and cock and belly like he feels now as Aragorn kisses a line up his arm, breathing deep Pippin’s scent. 

“Will you both tup me?” he asks before he can remember to be afraid. “At the same time?” 

Pippin’s imagined it before many times, lying in his bedroll while he strokes himself quick and furtive, whispered into Merry’s ear when they steal a moment for themselves, when he’s split open on Boromir or Aragorn’s cock, but not both. They’re both so big and thick compared to his little body, it would be a challenge to get both inside. It takes forever to get one in, sometimes they make him come _twice_ before someone deems him loose enough to fuck. But Pippin always wants more. Perhaps it’s greedy of him to have Merry and have Boromir and Aragorn both yet still want more of them, but he craves it. For they make him feel needed, loved, cared for. And when he’s sat on one of their cocks, it’s all he can think about—that extra pressure, extra fullness. To swallow up all the love they have for him until he forgets every terrible thing.

Boromir makes a noise of concern, “Merry will be very upset with us if we hurt you. And, frankly, I’m afraid of angry Merry.” 

“You won’t hurt me,” he says and means it. 

“It will take a very long time,” Aragorn says with a rough voice like burning whiskey. 

“I can take it,” Pippin retorts, daring his voice not to quiver. 

“We know,” Boromir says, “our brave little Pippin,” then kisses him. Pippin grasps a handful of hair, twists to press up against him. Yes, this is what he needs because when Boromir kisses him, when Boromir lays his body over Pippin’s, everything else is forced away. 

“Mmph,” Pippin says, or maybe, “hmm.” With one hand cupping Boromir’s head, the other scrabbles along his chest, twining through the hair growing there. Boromir braces himself above Pippin, enclosing him between his arms: safe. His tongue licks its way into Pippin’s mouth which Pippin obligingly sucks. He forgets Aragorn’s even there until the man’s hand finds its way between them, pinching Pippin’s nipples. Pippin gasps, arching his back. Aragorn nips at his throat. Pippin’s breath hitches, and Aragorn bites down harder. 

“Aragorn,” he says, “kiss me.” 

Aragorn tugs Boromir away, who stands to fish around in their clothes. If Pippin could spare a thought, which Aragorn is wonderfully snogging out of him, it’s probably to find oil. More slender and lean, Aragorn has less bulk than Boromir, but the way he kisses and touches makes it seem as though he’s known Pippin’s body for years. While Boromir works hard to draw forth whimpers, to find sensitive spots that make him shiver, Aragorn seeks them out easily. Already, Aragorn bites at the lobe of his ear, scratching nails up Pippin’s side. Pippin flails, useless. 

“I think we should set some rules for him, Aragorn,” Boromir says, and Pippin didn’t know when Boromir had returned, but he’s grateful for it, grateful for the teasing edge in Boromir’s voice, full of promise. “You know how hard it is for him to last until the end without them.” 

“I’ll be good for you,” Pippin pleads, “I promise—” 

Boromir slaps a hand over his mouth, “Should we make him earn it?”

Aragorn’s eyes meet his, shining. Pippin nods, squeezes Boromir’s thigh in agreement. 

“Hasn’t he earned it already though? He washed both our hair, I’d say he’s worked hard enough.” 

Pippin’s moved, their hands rearranging his limbs, whichever way they please. Pooling deep in his belly, heat washes over him because what he wants is to please them. Pippin knows they care for him, yet in his heart he needs to know he’s wanted, that he’s _useful_. When they settle, his head’s cradled in Boromir’s lap while Aragorn smoothes a hand over the length of his body. 

“Gorgeous,” Aragorn says. Wrapping a hand around Pippin’s cock, Aragorn strokes him languidly, suckles at the tip. 

Pippin moans, legs falling apart. After kissing the inside of a knee, Aragorn tosses them over his shoulders then swallows Pippin down, tongue fluttering against the underside. When Pippin looks down, Aragorn’s eyes are shut, lashes smudged, with a rosy blush on his cheekbones, lips bruised as he mouths at the crown, digs a thumb in the slit. Pippin’s abdomen tenses with the effort to hold still—sometimes being the sole focus of Aragorn’s intent is overwhelmingly intense. 

Boromir says, “I know his mouth is good, love, but if you can’t handle this, then two of us will be too much.” 

“Perhaps he needs something to occupy his mouth,” Aragorn says, switching now to sucking a bruise into Pippin’s inner thigh, tense and clutching his head. He gazes up at Boromir, fond and heated. Tilting his head back, Pippin noses at the base of Boromir’s cock. 

“Is that so?” Boromir says, fisting his dick. He’s so close Pippin can taste it, _wants_ the weight on his tongue making his jaw sore. Pippin nods frantically.

And then Aragorn’s mouth moves even further down, licking a wide stripe against his hole, moaning against him. Pippin whines, hips jerking, legs quaking.

“Yes,” he chokes out, “your fingers, your prick, _anything._ ”

Boromir leans over, and Pippin swallows what he can, moaning in relief. Above him, Aragorn and Boromir kiss, share his taste. He’s so preoccupied with wrapping his tongue around as much of Boromir’s dick that he can, that he doesn’t notice Aragorn slicking his fingers up until the first slides in. 

“You look good like this,” Aragorn murmurs, fucking his finger in and up. “Don’t you agree, Boromir?”

“Yes, our perfect slut.” Boromir rubs at his cheek where his cock bulges outward. “You love this, don’t you.” It’s not a question, and Pippin whines around his mouthful, the taste heady on his tongue. 

Between his legs, the pressure increases. Aragorn rubs Pippin’s hip bone in soothing circles while he twists his wrist. More oil is dribbled, the slick drag of Aragorn’s fingers filling him.

Popping off Boromir’s cock, a line of spit connecting his lips to the head, Pippin asks, small, “How many is that?”

Aragorn’s returning grin is wolfish, “Only two.”

It stings, but in that way that makes Pippin lightheaded. His fingers crook in a manner that sends Pippin’s knees juddering, and his answer comes as a helpless _ah_. Aragorn catches him, cooing sweet in his ear.

“That’s it, we’ve got you,” Boromir croons. “There’s still a long way to go.”

Aragorn scissors his fingers, long and thick but not as much as his prick Pippin spies hard and dripping. Aragorn twists his wrist, and Pippin doesn’t even notice the third and fourth fingers when they slide in. With his free hand, Aragorn soothes over Pippin’s trembling thighs, kisses and nips the sensitive skin, making Pippin whine around Boromir’s cock. Blocked from view, Pippin hears the sound of them kissing, murmuring back and forth, and he gags a bit when Boromir fucks his face, slow and deep. Pippin burns all over, toes curling and scrabbling at Boromir’s legs. 

They bounce him between them for what seems like _hours_ : Boromir in his mouth fucking him down onto Aragorn’s kingly hand. Eventually, Boromir pulls out. Pippin lunges for it, biting back a whimper, but Boromir just puts his head back in his lap, pinches and rubs his nipples, his belly. Blinking up, sunlight dapples both of the Men, casting their fair, blushed faces in gold. Even the trees forge crowns for them. Yes, so handsome and lordly, his Men, it steals his breath. Grass green as the Shire below them, placid crystal river behind, his mind whirls in thanks and wonder for this place, this moment.

Aragorn braces a hand on Pippin’s hipbone, all but whispers, “Can you breathe for me, little one? This is the last bit. That’s it, _good_.” 

Boromir laces their fingers as Pippin deliberately breathes out, forcing his body to relax. Aragorn’s knuckles push in, stretching him wide, wide, _wide_. Wide and bare, loose and wet. His stomach roils with the feeling, the pressure. He’s so full already, and it hurts a little, being split apart from the inside. But the hurting is tempered by the curl of Aragorn’s fingers relentless against the spot inside. All Pippin can do is squirm down onto it.

“I’m ready,” he says, “please, I promise. I need it— _hah_.”

“Please sounds quite nice in his voice, doesn’t it?” Boromir says. 

“Indeed, and we didn’t even have to ask,” Aragorn says. “Do you really think you’ll be alright?”

While Pippin loves them, really truly loves them, he kicks his feet, nodding furious, and says, “ _please_ , oh please.” 

They share a look, silently communicating as only two trained warriors can. As soon as Aragorn sets his legs down, Pippins in his lap, arms thrown around his neck and kissing him fierce. He rubs his prick against Aragorn’s belly, wiggling against the bruising grip they both have on his body. 

“Here, Pippin,” Aragorn says against his mouth. Taking himself in hand, Aragorn guides his cock to Pippin’s hole. Someone holds Pippin by the hips, keeping him still, and the anticipation of it makes Pippin shake—even the tip of it has his stomach heaving. He’s out of his head, can’t tell whose hands are in his hair, whose lips are on his throat, as Aragorn takes an eternity to lower Pippin down onto his cock. Blinking through a mess of sweat and curls, Pippin tips his head back, gasping once all of it’s in. He clutches at Aragorn’s hard bicep, braces himself against his chest. 

“Thank you,” he says, rocking on it, “thank you, _ah_.” The sheer size of his prick means Pippin doesn’t really have to do much work. He could sit on it all day simply basking in the fullness if Aragorn would let him. But Pippin needs them both today which means he needs to be looser, much more, so fucks himself on Aragorn’s cock as fast as he can no matter how his muscles burn with effort. 

Aragorn hisses through his teeth. “Not so fast, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Pippin shakes his head, “I’ve already waited too long.” 

“Boromir,” Aragorn sighs.

Then Boromir crowds his back. There’s some fumbling, a flash of glass vial in sunlight, then a touch encircling his hole where Aragorn’s throbbing. The first two of Boromir’s fingers are that extra bite at dinner—uncomfortable but not terribly so. But the next two, after what seems like ages, fan outward, stretching him beyond what he thought possible. 

“Amazing that a little body like yours can open up this far,” Boromir says, awed. “It’s as though you were made to take us.” Which, really. Hobbits aren't meant to fuck Men, except Pippin’s eyes have always been too big for his stomach, his heart too big with love to give. Boromir lays feathersoft kisses along his shoulders. Someone pets his ribs, which always stuck out a tad given Pippin’s unhobbit-like, slip of a thing stature but now given lack of food, make him self-conscious with how prominent they are. Merry, when Pippin brought this up, merely kissed the hollow of his throat, telling him not to worry about it. However, Pippin can’t help but worry that his thinness makes him seem more child-like to their eyes (no matter how silly, given that neither have treated him as such).

And as though Boromir can read his mind, Boromir bites his shoulder, sudden and hard enough to draw a sharp cry from Pippin. He licks it to soothe the wound, saying, “So handsome, Pippin. So gorgeous.” 

When Boromir starts to push inside, Pippin’s spine turns to water, falling forward into Aragorn’s chest. It takes Boromir twice as long to slip all the way in, and by the end, Pippin’s panting, sweat dripping down his brow. Aragorn and Boromir kiss quick over him. 

“Stars,” he whimpers thinly, “ _Gods._ ” 

“Bounce on them, little one. You can do better than that. You asked for this, I thought you’d be able to handle it,” Boromir says. 

Pippin hiccoughs, flushed hot. He shakes his head. 

“I ca- _an’t._ Not with the two of you i-inside me.” His voice is wrecked, teeth sunk into his bottom lip, blood welling up beneath a sharp incisor. Boromir holds him around tight around his middle, crushing his broad, hairy chest to Pippin’s back while Aragorn crushes Pippin to _his_ chest, stroking his curls. And even as his head swims in the mess of pleasure, Pippin feels _safe_ and _loved_ between his two Men.

“You’re doing so well. You can take it, I know you can,” Aragorn murmurs against his temple, reaches down and tweaks a nipple. Pippin twists into their grips. 

They shift him slightly, maneuvering his weak, sex-drunk limbs whichever way they want, and inside him, their cocks rub and jolt and send shocks up his core. They force him on his knees, spread wide across Aragorn’s lap with Boromir in between Aragorn’s legs. 

“Hold him still, Aragorn,” Boromir says, “otherwise I can’t fuck him hard enough.” The sound of his voice rolls through Pippin. Pippin moans. He’s so _full_ he can feel them both in his teeth, rearranging his insides till there’s nothing left but their pricks. Heat cascades up his body; Aragorn catches his mouth in a kiss, tightening his hold on Pippin, and Pippin can’t even breathe let alone fuck himself on their cocks.

Aragorn’s beard scratches along his jaw as he kisses up to Pippin’s ear, tracing his tongue along the whirl of it, brushing the tip with his lips. Boromir does the same to the other, and Pippin shudders as the sensation sends a wracking shiver through him.

Then, _then_ , Boromir pulls out just a little and pushes back in, making an obscene noise with all the oil they spilled everywhere when Aragorn fucked Pippin open on his hand. Shallow, lazy rolls of hips, enough to get Pippin used to the feeling but not enough to make any of them spend soon. 

Face buried in Pippin’s shoulder, Aragorn moans at the feeling of Boromir’s cock against his own, the intensity of it all. Boromir slides a hand through his hair, really clean for the first time in weeks, kisses him deep while Pippin’s crushed between them. Moments in between, Boromir whispers, “ _My king._ ” That’s how it is whenever they do this—Pippin needs it all: he needs to be scolded, to be put in place, and to be told he’s good for behaving. Aragorn, on the other hand, just needs them to whisper sweetly into his ear about how handsome and wonderful he is. Boromir is more than willing to provide both. 

Sliding a hand down Pippin’s spine which jumps at the touch, Boromir reaches his rim, red and sore, stretched so much wider than he ever thought possible, and rubs a thumb around it. Without warning, Boromir fucks in hard and fast, jolting Pippin and pitching him forward into Aragorn. 

“ _By the stars_ , Boromir,” Aragorn says through clenched teeth as Pippin squeals. Sweat drips down him, matting his hair to his forehead, pooling in dips of his chest. Pippin buries his face in the divot of Aragorn’s pecs, breathing deep the musk and soap that makes up Aragorn. He licks up Aragorn’s sternum, nips at his collarbones, anything to swallow down the essence of this, _his_ , beautiful Man. He wishes he could do this to Boromir too, but Boromir seems determined to fuck him until his brain dribbles out his ears. A particularly sharp thrust has Pippin biting Aragorn’s shoulder to muffle a cry.

“Ah, Pippin,” Aragorn continues, voice tight, “you undo me.” Inside, Aragorn’s prick throbs; outside, he soothes Pippin’s flushed chest, tweaking a nipple with each pass. 

Neither have touched his cock for what feels like hours, and it _aches_. Each thrust Boromir drives into him makes Pippin rub against Aragorn’s stomach, but it’s not enough to really draw him closer to the edge. Pippin winds an arm around Aragorn’s neck, tries to get some air, slips the other between their bodies to curl a fist around himself. But Boromir grabs his wrist, pins it to the small of his back, and finds a rhythm, fucking him punishing: fast, deep, breath-stealing.

“You’re a slag, little one, you know that? Greedy one too. Moaning on our cocks, and you still want more,” growls Boromir, low and dangerous. And when he gets dangerous like this, his accent grows thicker—filled with Minas Tirith’s spires and wide, wide streets. “Do you think you deserve it?”

“Come now, Boromir, he’s been doing so well. Look how good he’s taking us,” Aragorn says before Pippin can answer. 

“Yes, he’s positively gagging for it,” Boromir says, winding a hand in Pippin’s hair and tugging it back. Aragorn leans forward to set his teeth against the apple of his throat. Each snap of Boromir’s hips makes Pippin’s ass bounce, makes him lose any train of thought.

“Please,” Pippin gasps, a vague plea he hopes they’ll interpret for him. 

“But, it’s a shame that even both of our cocks aren’t enough for him. He’s always disappointed we can’t fuck his mouth if we’re both in his ass, isn’t that right?” Pippin flushes anew, wants to shake his head but can’t because between Boromir’s hand in his hair and their dicks in his ass, all he can do is squirm helplessly on the both of them. Besides, the thought has crossed his mind, of sucking Merry, or even his beloved Frodo and Sam, off while his Men take him. It should shame him, the way he craves their come and their attention in equal spades (Merry’s wicked smirk as he smears his come across Pippin’s face, Frodo’s quill-calloused hand tugging his hair, Sam’s sweet smile as he fucks Pippin’s face), but Pippin knows they love him too much to let him feel ashamed for even a moment.

“Even so,” Aragorn says, “he’s being so good for us.” Beneath him, Pippin feels just how much Aragorn’s thighs are trembling with the effort to keep still. Because even as much as Pippin craves them to _split him open, please, on your cocks, I need it,_ both of them thrusting in would hurt more than anything and not in a good way.

Aragorn kisses his temple, his nose, his lips. Cups his face and says, “Good boy, that’s it. Take it all. We’re so proud of you. Just keep taking it all, Pip.” 

All his limbs turn to water, caught in the tide between his two Men, and their pretty words. They’re so lordly and strong and lovely, and they love _him_.

“Boromir— Boromir—” Pippin says, reaching back for a handful of his hair, “kiss me please.” 

Boromir smiles and does as bid, dragging his tongue behind Pippin’s teeth, and giving Pippin back some of the breath he keeps punching from Pippin’s lungs. Pippin sighs into it, licking his own way into Boromir’s mouth. He sucks on Boromir’s lower lip, bites it and tugs with a breathless laugh that dissolves into a cry when Boromir picks up his pace. Wrapping one arm around Pippin, Boromir holds him close, tucks his face in the crook of Pippin’s neck. The other hand slips to his rim once more, teasing around the edge, around Aragorn’s prick, and Pippin whines feeling sloppy-wet, bared and wide open.

“Gods, look at you,” Boromir says. “So easy for it, aren’t you? Get a few fingers inside you, and you go right out of your head. Gagging for us to ride you hard. You were made this for this, made for _us_.”

Pippin burns hot, cock spurting out a dribble of come onto Aragorn’s belly. And the sheer sight of that—of his come shining wet in Aragorn’s dark hair—has him closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, and digging his nails into someone's arms to stave off spilling. He squeezes his knees tight around Aragorn’s hips. When his eyes flutter back open, they meet Aragorn’s greys, sparkling like starlight.

“Very good,” Aragorn all but purrs, “that’s our good boy. Doing so well for us.”

Aragorn squeezes the base of his dick, digs a thumb into the head, and licks away the slick. It shoots through Pippin, sensitive, bordering on the edge of a blade. It never ceases to amaze him how these two make him feel so beside himself with need: to please them and be consumed by the tangle of heat in his guts.

Aragorn twists his hand around the tip of his cock, rocking his palm flat over it in slow, even circles. Such a contrast to the pounding rock of Boromir’s dick in and out of him. Pippin whimpers, rolling his hips into his touch. 

“Oh, love, I know,” Boromir says. “You’re so desperate, you’d probably fuck anyone who gave you a second look, but they won’t give you what you need.” Boromir pauses, kisses the hinge of Pippin’s jaw. “You need a firm hand to put you in your place.” With that, Boromir yanks on his curls again while Aragorn sucks a blooming mark on his throat. 

“Oh,” Pippin yelps helplessly, “oh, _oh_ . Yes, yes. Please, _yes_.”

But then, very quiet, Aragorn whispers, “ _Oh, Boromir._ ” A hand gentles over his lower stomach, his pelvis, right behind his cock. Pippin, blinking through his sweaty curls, looks down to see his belly push out, just a little bit every time Boromir shoves in. Pippin’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open as his gut lurches with an obscene burst of pleasure at the sight. Boromir, when he sees, cries out, buries his face in the nape of Pippin’s neck. 

“That’s so,” Pippin says. “That’s so— _oh._ ” Wide-eyed, he simply stares at the bump beneath Aragorn’s hand. Aragorn reaches, pulls Boromir’s hand over his own, and then it’s the two of them cupping Pippin’s pelvis, the place where their cocks jut out of him. Their fingers lace, and Pippin is overcome with love and sensation and want. 

Boromir groans, says, “I would keep you like this, Pippin. Split open on our pricks, keep you filled, watch your belly swell everyday.” 

“I want it,” Pippin agrees, “please, _ah—_ ”

But it’s Aragorn who comes first with a deep, quiet noise, and his forehead pressed to Pippin’s. Pippin holds him close, trembling at the heat of him coming inside, at the way it spills out because there’s nowhere else for it all to go. Pippin can feel his cock twitching, softening, and the heat burning through this abdomen. Gingerly, they hoist him off Aragorn’s prick. Aragorn lays flat, pulls Pippin to his breast and guides his mouth to Aragorn’s nipple. While Boromir adjusts his knees, stradling Aragorn’s legs, Pippin sucks on Aragorn’s teat if only to muffle his cries.

Boromir resumes fucking him, only slower and deeper now that it’s just his dick inside. Aragorn alternates between them, petting their heads. And like this, Pippin finally can grind himself on Aragorn’s belly, trapped there by Boromir’s weight. 

Clenching his fists, Pippin says, “Can I come? I need it, please.” 

He feels Boromir’s smile on his shoulder blade. “Go on, little one, come for us. You look beautiful when you do, our good boy.” 

And Pippin does. A full bodied shudder, a shout tearing from throat, a drip of exhausted, overjoyed tears. Boromir follows soon after, spilling more come inside him. He flops beside Aragorn, taking Pippin with him. The two Men catch their breath, rub soothing circles into Pippin’s chest. He takes each of their hands in his own, kisses their bruised knuckles. There’s no need to say _thank you, I love you, thank you_ because they know. 

They’ve always known. 

**Author's Note:**

> One little historical tidbit: Pippin says his sisters washed their hair with egg and rosewater, which I based off a real late Victorian/early Edwardian shampoo recipe! Bernadette Banner has a lovely video illustrating how this was done, and I've included my primary source below:  
> Woodbury, William A. _Beauty culture: A Practical Handbook on the Care of the Person, designed for both Professional and Private Use._ London: Fisher Unwin, 1911. Accessed from: https://archive.org/details/b28054520/page/132/mode/2up.


End file.
